Indigo Rose tomatoes

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Aside from a slightly off-topic discussion about the feeding habits of bears, I’d say that our tasting of the gorgeous Indigo Rose tomatoes went reasonably well. I’m pretty well-versed in my heirloom tomato varieties having sampled all kinds of treats from the iconic Brandywines to the yellow Pineapples. But Indigo Rose tomatoes are one of my favorites. They’re sweet and fruity, with a wonderfully juicy texture; they’re my go-to summer tomato for salads, fresh tomato sauces, and bruschetta. And my sidekick Lauren, the other tomato lover in the house, couldn’t agree more.

ME: Guys! We have a new one. What am I holding?

LAUREN: A tomato.

ME: A tomato, that’s right. Does anyone remember the name of this tomato from the Farmer’s Market?

SAM: Uhhhhh….

LAUREN: I didn’t even read the sign.

ME: This is called an Indigo Rose tomato. Why do you think it’s called that?

LAUREN: Uh because of the color of indigo in it?

ME: Yeah, it’s go that really, really deep bluish purple coloring on it. Isn’t that cool? Do most tomatoes have this color?

SAM/LAUREN: No.

ME: So when we see this color we know that we’re dealing with a very special tomato. I’m going to have you guys smell this because it–

EMMA: I don’t like tomatoes.

ME: It doesn’t matter if you don’t like tomatoes. I still want you to smell it.

SAM: It smells like a normal tomato.

ME: Don’t lick it. Ok. Are you going to smell it for me Emma? Let’s all do this together.

[smelling]
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100 new foods

Green leaf lettuce

Thursday, May 29, 2014

If last week’s fava beans were a disappointment, we found redemption in a head of green leaf lettuce. Sometimes you don’t need to smell, feel, and talk about a vegetable to make it appealing. Sometimes it’s so wonderful that your kid just shoves it in his mouth without asking questions. Sometimes…..sometimes you just get lucky.

ME: Ok. Our first mystery food is…

LAUREN: Broccoli?

ME: Nope. What is this called?

SAM: Salads?

LAUREN: I think I tried it before.

SAM: Salads.

EMMA: Salads.

LAUREN: Wheat… wheat… wheat.

SAM: Salads. Greens.

ME: It’s called green leaf lettuce.

LAUREN: Oh, I have tried this before.

ME: Yeah? Ok. Wow, Sam just shoved it in his mouth! Sam didn’t even smell it or anything he just shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

EMMA: It smells like peanut butter.

LAUREN: I love this.

ME: Ok. Sam, you just ate the whole thing, so tell me what did you think? Did you like it?

SAM: I love it, not like it.
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4 comments

Blog

Ramping it up in the kitchen

Sunday, May 18, 2014

It’s that time of year when all rational behavior falls by the wayside. Ramps are here. Home cooks and chefs alike elbow each other out of the way in order to return from the market with a few bunches of these highly prized vegetables, triumphant.

They’re delicious.

Black truffle delicious? Pork belly delicious?

I don’t know if I’d go that far. But they’re pretty fantastic, owing in part to the fact that they’re only around for a brief window in the Spring. Then they’re gone, hidden from view until they can serve as next year’s bright indication that that Spring is back, and that Winter has been banished for 9 more glorious months.

Some of you may be scratching your heads at this point, either never having heard of a ramp, and/or reflecting on your extreme distaste for pork belly. Let’s focus on the first issue, which is the topic of this post. Pork belly will be saved for another occasion when I muster up the confidence to cook it at home.

If I’m to use my Instagram account as a laboratory of sorts, there seems to be a lot of confusion about ramps.

Are they overpublicized and overpriced?

Or are they unsung heroes, with iffy recognition at best? The kind of fame often reserved for cultish authors, who slip by unrecognized by the masses but are adored by a passionate few.

Here are a few of the comments that led to my confusion after I posted a few dishes that contained ramps.

First, there is a large and vocal group of ramp lovers….

“RAMPS, my fave!”
“Ramps!!!!” (inclusive of a bright green leaf emoji)

Second, there seems to be a strange sleeper cell of ramp haters….

“I’m suffering from ramps overload”
“#savetheramps”

Lastly, there are those, with whom many reading this post will identify, who have never laid eyes on a ramp:

“Wait, what’s a ramp?”
“Are those ramps?”
“How have I never heard of these?”

Because educating the ramp unaware population is far more critical than appeasing the (likely) minority of (ornery) ramp haters, here we go: a short tutorial on where to find ramps, and what you can do with them. I’ve tried to make this visual so that you can see for yourself how versatile this simple green root can be….

Sourcing:

For some reason, I have never seen ramps in a Whole Foods or for that matter, any store with four walls and a ceiling.

The only place I’ve found ramps is at the farmers’ market, where you can find them in bunches, looking like this:

Season:

Although it depends on seasonal temps, ramp season (in the Northeast) runs from late April into early June.

Preparation:

Use them just as you would any fresh herb, or if you want a milder flavor, give them a quick sautee or grill.

Just go easy on them at first – their flavor packs a punch.

Here are some suggested uses:

1. Snip them raw like chives over anything that loves oniony things – omelettes, ricotta cheese on toast, or as my kids like to do, just eat the leaves plain.

(That was, for the record, ramps scattered over homemade labneh; harass me about writing a post on labneh because it’s ridiculously easy and so delicious)

2. Sautee them and add them to baked foods, like fritatta…

Stir them into a bubbling pot of mussels…

5 comments

Savory

Mother’s Day brunch

Sunday, May 11, 2014

I wasn’t planning to write a Mother’s Day post. Today’s post was supposed to be about ramps, but ramps will have to wait. Mother’s Day is a more timely subject, and one that I shamefully didn’t prioritize.

It’s not that I don’t love Mother’s Day, I do. But I tend to get excited about it on actual day itself, when at 11AM, someone in the house (not a child) says “oh crap, it’s Mother’s Day.” Then I start to scheme about all of the wonderful things that are heading my way….a late afternoon nap perhaps, or a 7:30PM bedtime with a good book.

I hope that my lax attitude towards Mother’s Day doesn’t sound harsh. I’m certainly not an old curmudgeon who goes about disparaging Valentine’s Day and the rest of the Hallmark holidays. If I’m to be completely honest, I’m equally forgetful about anniversaries. Rodney and I are often shocked to see a bouquet of flowers show up in our apartment every November, courtesy of my mother, who doesn’t forget these things.

But here’s the thing about forgetting communal holidays. It’s much better if it’s forgotten until the end of the day. At which point you realize the error of your ways, have some celebratory Champagne, and head to bed happy and a little drunk.

The worst time to remember is mid-morning, when you feel compelled to do something about it outside of the home.

Which is how, two years ago, we ended up at McDonald’s.

Not my first choice either, but here are the facts: 1) we were staying at the lake for the weekend where there are only 1-2 decent restaurants, decent meaning not McDonald’s, 2) everyone within a 15 mile radius goes hunting and gathering for a table at one of said restaurants, and 3) McDonald’s was right around the corner.

Based on my food and recipes, you may have presumed by now that I’m more skilled in the kitchen than a McDonald’s fry cook. Which isn’t a fair comparison, because it’s possible that he’s a talented chef who’s butting up against the chronic and debilitating constraints imposed by McDonald’s corporate.

But the point is this: my food tends to be better than what you’ll find at your neighborhood Golden Arches. Meaning that we could have gone back to our house, tails between our legs, and prepared a splendid brunch of Eggs Benedict, plump sausages, and blood orange mimosas. But that would be admitting defeat.

So rather than making me do all of that wonderful gruntwork which would have had me humming The Sound of Music all morning, Rodney suggested that we go to McDonald’s. Because, you know, the kids are hungry and we should probably find somewhere quickly before tectonic plates shift, the ground opens up, and world disintegrates into a smoking heap of ashes.

McDonald’s is one of those “in the case of an emergency, break glass” kinds of places. And I suppose that hungry kids = emergency, although in my highly trained medical opinion, treatment should have included a return to the house STAT for some whole grain crackers and a yogurt squeezers while I did the Sound of Music thing.

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Savory

For the love of pomegranate molasses

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Not long ago I was scared of pomegranate molasses.

It’s not a common ingredient, and to be perfectly honest, anything with the word molasses makes me just a little bit hesitant. My mind jumps to baking and Southern cooking, neither of which are strengths.

Combine my aversion to molasses with pomegranate molasses packaging, which is often entirely in Arabic, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

I’d bought a jar years ago when I’d seen it used in recipes from my Middle Eastern and Mediterranean cookbooks. Paul Wolfert, Yotam Ottolenghi, Claudia Roden, all repeat offenders.

But I’d hidden it in the back of my cupboard, along with the Vietnamese rice papers, and there it remained until last year. When for obvious reasons, I pitched the dust-covered bottle into the trash, horrified by its 2010 expiration date.

But I do love sweet & sour flavors. It’s a perfect marriage; Chinese restaurants have made a fortune singing its praises.

A few weeks ago I came across a recipe for sticky Moroccan chicken, and there it was – pomegranate molasses – in all of its glory, with the promise of a gooey, slick, finger-licking sauce.

Seeing that I’d already pitched the bottle of pomegranate molasses, I figured I’d pass on the recipe. But when I peeked into the fridge that morning, I was happy to see a full, unopened container of pomegranate juice. Hmmm…perhaps all was not lost. The wheels began to turn.

One thing I’ve learned in the kitchen is that when you don’t have the right ingredient, improvise. Lime instead of lemon, brown sugar instead of white, and most important, homemade when you don’t have a packaged version. You won’t get the exact same result, but you’ll get something similar. Which unless you’re trading baking powder for baking soda, will still be pretty delicious. Sometimes even more so.

Before long, I was nose deep on a pomegranate DIY mission, surfing through online recipes and getting excited about the prospect of making some at home.

I found what I needed, cracked open the pomegranate juice, added some lemon juice and a hint of sugar, and I was off to the races.

I don’t know why I was so nervous about pomegranate molasses. It’s one of those simple, flavorful ingredients that every cook should have in his or her arsenal.

Bobby Flay will flay you for not keeping it on hand. (Cue the laugh track, I needed it there). But seriously, he’s crazy about this stuff. Here’s proof. It tastes good on everything. Including straight off the spoon.

Check out some of my favorite ways to eat it, starting with the chicken of course…